


Extracurricular

by yeaka



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Collars, F/M, Leashes, M/M, Other, Puppy Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarvis readies himself for his master, who’d rather have a pet than a makeshift butler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extracurricular

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know zero about Marvel or American history beyond this show; heads up. I couldn’t decide if Jarvis’ master should be Anna, Peggy, or Howard, so I guess it could just be anyone?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Agent Carter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The linens are done. All three square meals—and tea—have been prepared and ingested. The entire “house” has undergone a thorough dust, sweep, and scrub, right down to the half mahogany, have marble finish off the secondary washroom. This is where his “supplies” are kept, under lock and key. 

Edwin shuts the door behind himself. His fingers hesitate on the handle before he lets go—it’s never quite clear _where_ the line is drawn: _when_ the game has started—does he have the privilege of privacy? His master hasn’t given him express permission to shut himself off, but perhaps the preparation is still neutral ground and it’s to his own discretion. 

He’ll have to ask next time. For now, he twists the handle, and it gives him the peace of mind to let out a breath: the last one he’ll take as _human._

There’s something unsettling in these games. Something exciting, too. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, because Edwin Jarvis always does his duties. If his master, or at least, his master in this particular area, wants this of him, then he can oblige. He will oblige. He steps from the door towards the counters, drifting across the space with a modicum of steel in his posture. Before the large mirror, he takes in his appearance and, not for the first time, wonders if it’s _pleasing._

A strand of his hair’s fallen into his eyes: an unusual dalliance. He pushes it back up into place and pulls the top drawer out from beneath the sink, fingers slipping around the ends of his comb. He brushes his hair back and flat again, quickly and efficiently, because his routines are only ever given so much time. 

After placing the comb back on the counter, Edwin shrugs his shoulders back, pulling the long sleeves of his grey suit jacket from his shoulders. This he hangs on the back of the door, then kicks off his shoes to lay beside it. It was a cold day, but he won’t be permitted so many layers where he’s going. Hopefully most of the game will be spent within the massive covers of the secondary bedroom’s sheets, where everything’s warm and comfortable. 

In the meantime, Edwin gently slips his fingers into the knot of his tie and unbinds it with practiced skill. The sleek, red fabric—a gift from his love on their last anniversary—slips cleanly from his neck. He drapes it over his hanging jacket, to be donned again when the game is over, whether that be later tonight or tomorrow morning. 

He looks over his shoulder once before he starts on the rest, but decides he can’t strip before the mirror. It’s too... embarrassing. Perhaps he shouldn’t have offered his services for this. He knows, of course, that he can still back out. His master is only that within the bedroom, and everything is conditioned on his willingness to please. But Edwin _likes_ pleasing this particular person, someone so very pivotal in his life, and now that he knows of their strange preferences... he finds he can’t say no. 

So he begins to work his long fingers down the buttons of his white shirt, slowly pushing smooth buttons through tempered holes one at a time. The farther he gets, the _dirtier_ he feels, though it isn’t from being on his knees to clean all day. He briefly entertains the idea of asking for a shower first, but he’s not sure how much of this sin a hot shower could wash away or if he could even wait so long. His master probably couldn’t. And he wouldn’t make them wait. His place is to serve, not inconvenience. 

He makes his way down to the last button and grips loosely at the two disparate sides of his shirt, then slowly peels them back. His neck feels bizarrely clear without the kiss of a crisp shirt collar around it, and his shoulders feel too light without the burden of taut fabric. The air is cool against skin, cold enough to make him shiver, but not enough to make him suffer. He can do this. He folds his shirt and places it on the counter, the pure white standing smoothly out against the grey-black lightning pattern of the marble. He can see his own reflection in it, but not nearly as clearly as when he lifts his head to eye himself again in the mirror. 

He runs one hand across his chest, freshly shaven, and wonders if he should trim down the remaining stubble. Again, there isn’t time. If his master is displeased with his shape, he’ll be groomed again, and that way there won’t be any guesswork. He shakes his head to release the trepidation and drops his fingers to his belt, slipping it deftly through the loop. 

His pants and underwear take a bit of squirming out of, fitted as they are, but soon those are folded atop his shirt, and he’s standing in the nude. The still air laps at him from every angle, flushes his cheeks a faint pink and makes him need another shaken breath. He’s hyper aware of every exposed bit of him, all the little nuances and imperfections that don’t so much give him shame as worry that he won’t be good enough for the perfection of his master. They’ll accept him, of course, but they still deserve better. He’s not as young as he used to be. 

Apparently, he’s not too old for games. He paces back to his jacket and pulls the little key out of his pocket, then returns to the counter to open the middle drawer on the left. It slides slickly out, all of its strange contents glinting up in the false, fluorescent light. 

It’s a collection of sorts. The different objects have been built up from different encounters, different predilections and a few different sources—one must be industrious in this judgmental world. Most never see the light of day except for those occasions when his master comes to visit that bedroom, though Edwin always has the key. 

The first thing he draws out he’s worn of his own predilection, just to test the fit and comfort, though always discretely under his clothes. He pulls a dark, leather collar out of the drawer, untied with the heavy metal clasp hanging down. It looks like it belongs on a dog, but it’s built for a human, and Edwin lifts it slowly to his throat. He looks at the mirror as he fastens the clasp, then sticks two fingers in to check the fit, tight with room to breathe. It still feels restrictive when his adam’s apple bobs out in a gulp, but it’s hardly intolerable. He imagines he could grow used to it, should he wear it more. When it seems in order, Edwin turns it around so the clasp rests at the back and the little, silver pendant he’s had engraved with his master’s name lies flat against his collarbone. 

The next item he draws out is a headband, and this Edwin almost chuckles at—it looks _silly_. The material in the middle is brown to blend in with his hair, like the soft down of the puppy-like ears molded on top. He slips this onto his head, though it feels strangely like a clamp around his brain, and stares at the illusion it gives. It’s an expensive piece, bought with the ever-charitable—for amusement, anyway—Stark account. Upon not-too-close inspection, the ears looks startlingly _real_ , and Edwin can’t help but tilt his head back and forth to study the view. He knows he’s shown the qualities of a dog—loyal, willing to lie at another’s feet, to follow anywhere, although he certainly doesn’t prescribe to a wealth of panting and drooling—but this does look and feel odd. Nonetheless, he combs back a few strands of hair to hide his own, all too human ears. After another lingering look, his hands are back in the drawer. 

There aren’t many pieces to this game. Other things, his master might come back for, but only two more items are a part of this specific collection. The fake tail he pulls out matches the ears perfectly, though it’s much longer and shaggier. It’s attached to a little rubber plug at the end that always looks disturbing big to Edwin, but he knows the weight of the fur must stay in one way or another. 

A little bottle of all-purpose petroleum jelly sits in one of the other drawers, always available. Unscrewing the top, Edwin dips two fingers in, slowing at the cold thickness of it. It’s always an unusual feeling. But he needs it and steels himself over again to do this before reaching that hand back. 

His clean hand pulls one taut cheek of his ass aside, and the slick hand runs down his crack, fingers following the warm trail to the little puckered hole near the bottom. He rubs over this while pointedly looking away from the mirror, drawing himself in soothing little circles and trying to relax. Finally, he thinks he’s loose enough to push the blunt tip of one finger inside, and though it feels strange as ever and makes him hiss, he pushes deeper, moving that one finger shallowly in and out. The jelly helps ease his way, but it still feels overtly _odd_ , especially when he’s standing alone in a too-large washroom. The mood is more clinical than sensual.

Edwin is studious and prepares himself all the same, working his entrance deeper and deeper until he feels stretched enough to insert a second finger. Then he can coax himself properly open, scissoring enough to poke a third fingertip in around them. When he can’t take anymore, he holds himself open and uses his dry hand to grasp the end of the plug, guiding it around to his hole. With a bit of work, he manages to shove it inside enough for the protruding end to be swallowed up, and he wrenches both hands away with a gasp. The tail stays where it is, swishing lightly between his legs and tickling the backs of his thighs, but it’s his ass that gets the brunt of the rubbing. The sensation of being filled always comes with a kind of newness. For a brief moment, Edwin simply splays his hands against the counter and braces himself, adjusting to the new equipment. 

The last item he pulls from the draw is simpler. It’s a long, flat leash, of the same material as the collar, with a little matching clip at the end to attach it to himself. Instead, he folds the leash up into a tight baton shape. 

He lifts the leather to his mouth and bites down around the middle, so that he can present the leash to his master through his teeth. He’ll need his hands to crawl.

One last look at the mirror. One last flash behind his eyes; he can do this; and he _is_ excited, nearly trembling to meet his master on the other side, surely around by now. He casts a quick look around the washroom, doing stock to be sure it’s clean, though of course, he’ll have another round both here and the bedroom once they’re done. Satisfied, he paces to the door and twists the handle, the lock clicking loose. 

The door pushes open, and Edwin Jarvis sinks to his knees, always ready to serve.


End file.
